


Promises Kept

by 4eyeswordsmith, tranimation



Category: Human Target (TV 2010)
Genre: Gen, Jack Harrison (Guerrero), Jackson Harrison, Joubert Junior (Christopher Chance), Lucy Joubert (Lucretiza "Lucy" Alighieri)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4eyeswordsmith/pseuds/4eyeswordsmith, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tranimation/pseuds/tranimation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guerrero loses everything at the hands of Baptiste. Elseworld: Tragedy: Complete. Rated T for violence and language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises Kept

**Author's Note:**

> My friend Abri Isgrig (4eyeswordsmith.tumblr.com) and I co-wrote this HUMAN TARGET fic together, hurrah! However, we ended up loving the characters of Lucy and Jackson so much that we didn't have the heart to kill them off permanently, thus take this as an "alternate ending" or, as we lovers of DC Comics prefer to call it, an "Elseworld."
> 
> This story takes a month after the events of this week's episode, "Baptiste." (In "A Problem Like Maria," we learn Guerrero can't speak a lick of Spanish, and the episode "Imbroglio," he's familiar with Italian operas.) I was delighted to learn in "Cool Hand Guerrero" that Guerrero's "little one" is, in fact, a boy, as we theorized. For those who are puzzled by the truck rather than the Eldo, it's because Guerrero had an ominous black Dodge/Ford truck in the first season.
> 
> HUMAN TARGET © DC Comics/Fox  
> Lucille "Lucretiza 'Lucy' Alighieri" Joubert and Jackson Harrison © Abri Isgrig/Diane N. Tran

It had been months since he'd spoken to Baptiste over the phone, but Guerrero couldn't get the man's voice out of his head.  He had taken every possible precaution he could think of, but was it enough?  Something just didn't feel right, and he couldn't put his finger on it.  
  
He closed his eyes and could hear the words echo clearly in his ear:

_HE'S THE ONE PERSON YOU WOULD NEVER TURN AGAINST.  NOT YET, ANYWAY.  NOT UNTIL YOU'VE LOST EVERYTHING._

Guerrero's fingers pinched the pain between his tightened brow.

_OH, BY THE WAY, I NEVER GOT A CHANCE TO CONGRATULATE YOU ON BECOMING A FAMILY MAN.  HOW OLD IS THE LITTLE ONE RIGHT NOW?_

He grimaced.  His fingernails dug crescents into his palm and his hand began to shake.

_YOU KNOW, WHEN WE'RE FINISHED WITH YOU, YOU'RE GOING TO BEG TO RETURN TO THE FOLD._

"Hey!" said Winston, clapping his hands in front of Guerrero's face.  
  
He snapped his attention to the large man.  
  
"You alright?"  
  
"Dude...," Guerrero said, automatically, waving his hand at him, "never better..."  Anything to get Winston off his back.  
  
Something _definitely_ didn't feel right.  He didn't want to be at the office with Chance and Winston and new gir—er, Layla.  
  
"You _have_ seemed distracted lately," she said, leaning back against her computer chair.  "You haven't even touched the rest of the leftovers in the fridge."  
  
Yes, that was unlike him.  
  
Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he tapped his nails into the wood grain of the chair arm and lied to her, "I think I left the stove on.  I should get back home."  
  
Guerrero pushed himself out of the chair, rising to his feet, a little too quickly, grabbing his coat and satchel, and headed for the door.  
  
Maybe it wasn't too late.  Maybe it was all in his head.  Maybe he'll just get home and see everything to be fine and perfect and beautiful and—  
  
He swung open the door and saw Chance stand there with his phone to his ear.  He heard the call click off.  His face was ash white.  
  
"That was Baptiste on the phone," his friend answered just below a whisper.  He went silent for a long moment before he met his eye.  "Guerrero, I—I'm—"  
  
His breath caught in his throat.  His blood ran still.  His body was shaking in rage and disbelief, but felt like lead as he stood there.  He couldn't speak.  He couldn't breath.  He couldn't feel.  He forced his weight forward, shoving Chance out of the way, and ran out the door.  
  
"Layla, stay here!  Winston and I will follow him!" said Chance, fishing his car keys from his pocket, as they heard the loud screech of car wheels outside.  
  
\---  
  
Guerrero spun the truck into a halt.  There were no cop cars surrounding the idyllic suburban street of green lawns and white picket fences.  Everything looked exactly the way he left this morning:  The wind rustled the tree leaves that sang with songbirds.  The sun was shining over the rooftops and the clouds rolled lazily over in the clear blue sky.  He could see wives planting their gardens, husbands trimming their hedges, and children laughing upon their playgrounds.  
  
Chance and Winston watched Guerrero fly up the porch, two to three steps at a time, before they jumped out of the car and followed him inside the house of 1216 Primrose.  
  
Chance pulled out his handgun before he entered through the front door, with Guerrero nowhere in sight.  He held his piece ready, as he glanced into the rooms, one by one — kitchen, living room, bathroom — and then heard the sound of muffled breath upstairs.  Carefully ascending the steps, he peered through the generous crack.  
  
"Guerr—," Chance whispered for an answer, as pushed door open wide.  
  
Words failed him, as he beheld the sight before him.  The room itself told the story of the struggle.  Blood sprayed over the carpet and walls, with bullet pocks scattered across the plaster, and a silencer on the floor with an empty clip.  Chance paled, lowing his weapon, when he heard Winston's strangled whisper:  
  
"Oh, God..."  
  
Guerrero fell to his knees in front of the two bodies.  His long-time girlfriend, Lucretzia Alighieri (or Lucy, as Chance more commonly called her), laid dead upon one side of the armchair.  Her black hair scattered over her beautiful face and her grey eyes looked out lifelessly.  She was shot several times through the chest and stomach.  Upon her lap, her arms were holding the limp body of their six-year-old son, Jackson, with one shot — the final shot Baptiste saved as his master-stroke — in his head at point blank, the back half blown open, with his most prized possession of a stuffed llama, the child's first gift from his father, cradled in his dead arms.  
  
Guerrero pulled a scrap of paper the boy held from his small hand.  It was a family portrait of the three, sitting in the same armchair, the same poses, but with permanent, frozen smiles that seemed to mock him, defy him, and laugh at his pain, underneath the bloodstains.  Guerrero lifted a shaky hand and touched the child's cheek.  
  
Chance touched his friend's shoulder, but Guerrero flinched at the foreign hand and the child's body slid and slumped to its side over the arm of the chair, as the toy fell onto the carpet with a deafening squeak.  
  
"I'm—I'm so sorry."  Those were the only words Chance could manage to eke out from his lips.  
  
Guerrero looked up at him, with rage and hurt screaming in his eyes.  "Sorry?  Is that all _you_ , of all people, could possibly say to me?"  He lowered his head, facing away from him, and his shoulders began to shake and Chance heard a distinct click.  Their eyes widened when Guerrero pulled a gun into view and aimed it at Chance.  
  
Chance raised his hands defensively.  He removed his finger from the trigger of his own gun.  
  
"Guerrero, come on!" commanded Winston.  "Put the gun down!"  
  
"This doesn't concern you, dude," growled Guerrero.  "This is between me and Chance.  Get out..."  
  
Winston glanced at Chance who didn't dare move.  
  
"Get.  _Out!_ "  
  
The large man pushed his hands out, nodding his head, as backed out of the room and out of sight.  
  
Chance's voice was firm.  "You don't want to do this.  You've tried too hard, fought so long, and look how far you got."  
  
"I'm sick of trying.  I'm sick of fighting.  I'm sick and tired of _everything_..."  
  
"We can find Baptiste, Guerrero.  We can get him for this, for everything he's done."  
  
Guerrero gripped the gun in his hand tightly.  "For what _you've_ done, Chance...  You could have stopped it, you know...  It's all your fault, dude..."  Guerrero jolted his gun forward, when the blonde inched forward toward him, which made Chance push his hands higher in the air.  "You could have killed him...  He was right in front of you and you let him go...  You knew what he was capable of...  You _knew_..."  His gun rattled in his hand, as the tears scorched his eyes.  "You could have ended this...  Why didn't you?  Why?  None of this would have happened, if it weren't for _you_..."  
  
Chance crouched down and pushed his chest against the barrel of Guerrero's gun.  He spoke softly and slowly to his friend:  "Look, you have every right to be mad, but not like this."  
  
Guerrero's expression clouded and he began to shake his head.  "No...  I have to kill you...  And then he'll bring them back...  He has to..."  He pressed the weapon against his chest.  His finger trembled over the trigger.  
  
"It's _not_ that simple...," whispered Chance, as his fingers circled around the gun.  "Come on...  Let it go...  It's okay..."  
  
Chance gently pulled the weapon from Guerrero's trembling fingers.  Guerrero couldn't hold it in anymore and broke down.  His hands grabbed the sides of his head, his fingers clutching fistful of hair, he gritted his teeth and pulled his head out of sight.  He couldn't bear to look at him, as Chance saw droplets fall onto the carpet.  It was some minutes until Guerrero lifted his head, covering his mouth, fighting for self-control.  He weakly rose from the floor and Chance had to hold him steady, but Guerrero pushed him away to hold a brave face.  
  
"Give me a few minutes, dude," Guerrero murmured.  "Need to be alone."  
  
Chance backed away, watching his friend stagger toward the armchair, dragging his feet, as if they were no more than dead weight, and he sat down the empty spot next to his two most cherished loves.  
  
"Chance...?"  
  
He turned his head over his shoulder.  
  
"Do me a favour," he said in a dead voice, caressing their faces.  "Promise me that when you find that _figlio di puttana_ , you will make him pay for what he did..."  
  
"We'll find Baptiste, Jack.  I swear we will, and I'll let you have the final honour, buddy."  
  
Guerrero seemed to have not heard him.  He rested his head against Lucy's, as his fingers followed the line of her colourless lips, and embraced the cadaverous forms in his arms, as Chance softly closed the door behind him.  He stood out in the hallway with Winston, staring at his friend's gun at rest in his hand, and gave a heavy sigh.  He clicked the safety gauge on and put it away.  Chance's eyes suddenly widened when he realized something:  He had Guerrero's weapon, but his own had went missing.  
  
He threw open the door and:  
  
 _BANNNGG!_


End file.
